


Rome 2007

by thesacredgrove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Feels, Italy, Kissing, Licking, M/M, No Really - Every Single Feel, Oral Sex, POV First Person, POV First Person Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-John Sherlock, Pre-Johnlock, Rimming, Sad, Switching, all of the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesacredgrove/pseuds/thesacredgrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pre-John Sherlock tells us why there’s a framed postcard of the Pantheon on the wall by the door of 221B. In doing so, he teaches us a little bit about why he is the way he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rome 2007

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mid0nz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mid0nz/gifts).



_The sun of Rome is set and our day is gone_  
 _A kiss, a taste of red, from your open lips._  
\- Covenant:  _We Stand Alone_

* * *

Every now and then, I'm still startled awake by the sensation of his mouth on my skin. I'd never felt anything like it before and I haven't since.

I don't think I'll ever feel anything like it again.

But that's my fault, isn't it?  
You'll find that it is.

_  
~~(You should have stayed.)~~ _

  
It was night-time - a Wednesday - when we met. He was tall and auburn-haired and dressed too warmly for a Roman evening in March. I'd just had a meeting with my Italian client at a small cafe in the Piazza della Rotonda. On my way back to the flat which was my home then, I walked past the Pantheon.

That's where he tripped and slammed into me full-force.

It was an accident, and while I deduced aloud that he was clearly accident-prone, all I cared about in that moment was how his lean body felt pressed against mine. The split second we spent smashed together was dizzying. That was what kept me flat on the asphalt for so long - not the force of the impact, but the force of _him_.

He took me home that night and didn't leave my side for six months.

_  
~~(Sherlock, you foolish psychopath, you should have stayed.)~~ _

  
We became inseparable almost immediately. Not being the type to warm to others at any speed, I was surprised that our relationship existed, let alone the velocity with which it moved. He was gracious and thoughtful - more importantly, he was bright, helpful and genuinely interested in what I was doing. I was equally interested in him which shocked me. I cracked The Italian Case before the last frost of spring and he and I were intimate for the first time that night.

I'd like to deny it, but I knew by then that I loved him. Fiercely. He made me; it would have been impossible to be with him that night and all the nights after if I hadn't. I'd only known a few lovers before him, but I quickly realized that he was very different. Selflessness and tenderness were but two of the endearing qualities the man possessed. Between that and his inability to say “no”, I realized quickly that nothing was off limits between us - physically or emotionally.

That first night with him in my bed is burned in my mind as a long string of still images and strong emotions. Recalling each moment is akin to looking at an old movie reel one exposure at a time; holding each frame up to the light reveals scene after ardent scene. In one, hands moving over my skin give way to his body bared against mine, the joy of lips touching lips and fingers grazing cocks; in the next, trembling hands confidently stroke, warmth and pulsing comes to throats and backsides, there is grasping and releasing everywhere - over and over and _over_. We took turns licking everything, sucking each others cocks and fucking each others hands and mouths and arses until the sun came up and there was nothing left in either of us but exhaustion.

The two of us did everything two lovers could do to each other, that night and many nights thereafter. Our physical requirements for sustenance and his insistence that I see Roman history firsthand were the only things that got us out of bed at all that summer.

I'd never had _anything_ like him before. His sex was a fire I doubt will ever burn down. One touch of his hand could make my body ache with want, give me release, then fill me with desire again ... yet, instead of muddying my mind, he  cleared it. The great racing in my head actually slowed in his presence; like playing violin, being with him made it easier to think. As though that weren't enough, he was also gorgeous and charming, caring and understanding, and accepted my aloof manner rather than being repulsed by it.

He loved me.

_Me._

  
_~~(How?)~~ _   
  


Before too long, I couldn't imagine having existed up to that point without him. I grew addicted to him; what he did ~~to~~ for me and the delicious shade of gray we shared. There was no black or white between us: no right or wrong, no “top” or “bottom” - just us. Can you understand? I could ask to be held, or to be held _down_ , for warmth or for heat, to be left alone or swaddled in blankets of love ... I could ask to fuck him or to be fucked by him, or for a cup of tea. There were no limits and no rules. His heart was as wide open as it was endless and tender, and that brought out emotions in me I never knew I was capable of feeling.

_I loved him so bloody much._

It hurts to remember how it felt to be with him. Every moment we shared then is like a dagger to me now.

_  
~~(I need a moment, please.)~~ _

  
This part of the story isn't as good as the rest. You may as well skip it.

Our Roman months flew like days and soon enough autumn came. Another case called me - this one home, to London. I didn't have to go but I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too. As happy as we were, it had been months and the addict I am wanted that case. We were so entwined by then, I could have stayed in Rome endlessly - he wanted me to, but my mind was made up. Heaven forbid I give someone else what they want, ever. My work was calling me, I said - my important work.

The truth is, I was stubborn and spoiled. Above all that, I wanted the old drug of a new case.

We fought tirelessly, but I knew in the end I would get my way. He never said “no”, remember? I convinced him to move in with me on Montague Street. I'd go ahead, and he'd pack and follow before Christmas.

One more time, we made love the night before I left. It was violent and full of longing. I needed him so much. I hope he realized that.

__  
_~~(You were leaving him. Exactly how would he have realized that?)~~ _  
_~~(Idiot - it doesn't matter that it was only supposed to be a few months.)~~_

  
I remember his mouth that night - how he couldn't take it off my body. The feeling of his lips and tongue tracing lazy circles over my skin is one I will never forget. It started with him devouring me, swallowing me whole as though the further he drew me in, the longer I would stay. He cried choking on my length and I returned the favor with tears of my own, shed as he buried himself to the hilt inside of me for what felt like forever.

We went back and forth between pleasures many times that night, taking turns like we always did. The wrought iron bed, the settee, the floor, the balcony, even the tiny washroom - every surface of that small flat saw our desire. The only things as varied and glorious as the acts we committed there were the emotions that prompted them. _So much_ feeling was crammed into those dark hours. In retrospect, I wish I had been less hopeful.

I wish I hadn't taken so much for granted.  
  
  
 _ ~~(You had your chance.)~~_

  
 He was still in my arms the next morning when we woke up. One last time he asked if I would stay in Rome.

“Please Sherlock, won't you just stay?”

“No,” I laughed, dismissing him, “London is wonderful and you will love living with me there as much as anyone could possibly love living with a sociopath in a crowded city. Anyway, at least there's proper tea.”

He smiled and told me he was sure I was right.  
  
  
 __ ~~ _(By the time I realized I was wrong, it was too late.)_~~  
  


  
A week after my return to London, I received mail from him - an antique photo postcard of where we first met, printed on heavy parchment paper. I had it framed and hung above my bed – what would be our bed. I told him about it, and he said he couldn't wait to see it.

"Just a few months," I told myself.

  
_~~(You really don't want to read the rest of this.)~~_  
  


He never got to see it.

It was  _my_ fault.

He was killed.

On his way to the airport.  
On his way to _me_.

How, you ask?

Automobile accident.  
  


_~~(Like I said, he was clearly accident-prone.)~~ _

  
His postcard is still framed and hanging, but not above the bed. It bothered me too much to have it there, especially on the nights the ghosts of his lips would startle me awake. Actually, it's not anywhere at Montague Street - I left there shortly after his death. My client at the time saw fit to move me and my complications into her rooms at Baker Street. I am still there, alone. 

Not totally alone. His postcard is here. I hung it near the door.

It stares at me with anger from its antique oval frame.

I hung it there so I can see it every time I leave the flat, just before I go out into the world.

It serves as a reminder to never let anyone out there get that close to me ever again.  
  


_~~(That was what kept me flat on the asphalt for so long - not the force of the impact, but the force of him.)~~ _  
  


__

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the contest prompt by Mid0nz, and by my own trip to Rome in 2007.
> 
> Photos used were taken by me. Travel ephemera is also mine, found/purchased/received on the trip (some, like my plane ticket, have obviously been Photoshopped for use in this fic).
> 
> Incidental photos (spoon, mug, stamp, syringe, cigarette, blank back of postcard, table/tablecloth, Euros, UK passport) are either in the public-domain or free stock photos by 123rf.
> 
> The original framed postcard, as seen on the Sherlock set (courtesy of Mid0nz):
> 
> To be honest, it might not be a postcard of the Pantheon! It has the wrong number of pillars out front, and the obelisk out front is out back instead. For the sake of this work, I am willing to believe it, though!


End file.
